


Gold

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [2]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Time, God what a mess..., M/M, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Prostate Milking, Shameless, Subdrop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2020-12-07 13:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20976305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: “Fuck off,” Tommy snarls with venom in his voice.“S’my fuckin’ house, mate, I’m not going anywhere. You wanna fuck off then you fuck off. Put your precious little suit back on and trot straight out that door.” Alfie nods towards the bedroom doorway. "Cause what is it, hmm? You scared of getting fucked or scared of liking it?"





	1. Part I.

**Author's Note:**

> This is set near the start of my AU (in between Sideways and Denial). It was written in response to a Tumblr request for me to write Tommy & Alfie's first time and well, I guess once that seed had been planted, it just kind of grew. I have honestly thought about this a fair amount anyway, so here it is, finally written down. Consider it a missing chapter, from early in the "Live a Lie" series. (I've reordered the series so it now appears in its proper place).
> 
> Enjoy!

The gymnasium was Alfie’s idea, and it was a good one, if he does say so himself. It’s neutral ground, metaphorically speaking (physically it’s on the edge of Camden town, but that was always going to be unavoidable given they’re here to watch one of Alfie’s fighters). The man currently sparring in the ring right in front of them is putting on a good show and Tommy does seem more relaxed than usual ... if by relaxed you mean shoulders just slightly less square and hands in the pockets of his long black coat. It's a start. The point of being here, because Alfie does always _have_ a point, is that it’s unrelated to any of their current business dealings, which makes it a neutral topic of conversation_,_ and as close to leisure as men like them ever get. Besides, Alfie thinks that Tommy would genuinely enjoy running a fighter so it's a pleasant diversion. (True, he can think of even more pleasant diversions, but he’s working up to that.)

It’s the first time Tommy’s been to London in several weeks and Alfie can’t deny that a certain element of anticipation has been, well, _bothering_ him. Not vexing him, not weighing him down, just _there_, at the back of his mind. The few meetings they’ve had since_ that day_ at Arrow House have been awkward … laden with tension and, more often than not, unnecessary bystanders. Tommy had brought Arthur along to the first meeting for fuck’s sake; like he needed a bloody bodyguard! It would've made Alfie laugh if he hadn't spent every second of the meeting thinking about the noises Tommy makes when you tell him he's not allowed to come yet. After the second meeting Alfie’d managed to get him up against a wall, albeit briefly, but the way Tommy had desperately returned the kiss (at least until John had barged in) gave Alfie reason enough to anticipate there would be a third time. Which there had been. And a fourth. So yeah, he thinks it's safe to assume a certain element of interest on both sides now. 

It’s not like Alfie’s some smitten schoolgirl. Far from it, he’s spent the last twenty years of his life taking his fucks where he can get them and rarely in the same place twice. It's unavoidable when you're a man of his particular tastes, but quite frankly he's never been interested in anything more, too busy and selfish to care. But Thomas Shelby is different, there's no denying that, in another league entirely. Alfie can't help it if he just fucking _wants_ him. For starters, it should be _illegal_ to look that bloody good all the time. But it's more than that, so much more. He's one of very few men that Alfie would consider his equal. In fact, if pressed, he couldn't name a single other one, and that is _something_, right? Tommy is wiley and ruthless and recklessly ambitious, and yet it's all undercut by this well-hidden streak of vulnerability – like a seam of gold in a wall of rock just waiting to be mined. And it's that seam, that precious vein that Alfie covets; he wants to take a pickaxe to that hard exterior and lay Tommy Shelby _open_. 

He’s staring at the man now, standing out like a sore thumb in the seedy gym, looking immaculate and graceful and right on the fucking edge. It's not surprising given the shit he's involved in, Russians and government agencies crawling all over him, but the fact that Alfie can _see_ it, well that's fucking dangerous. That is what gets people killed. And he very nearly was killed, wasn't he? That priest came far too fucking close and Tommy might be pretending he's fine, but it quite clearly isn't true. Alfie could see it that day at Arrow House and he can see it now - a weariness, a fragility barely hidden by Tommy's hard stares and fixed expressions. The rest of the world might not care to notice, but Alfie's more perceptive than most.

“How many hours have you slept in the last week?” he asks. It’s a strange thing to bring up in the middle of a discussion about match-fixing, probably, but Tommy is familiar enough with Alfie’s non sequiturs not to be thrown off balance. It's a sign of how well they know each other, even if it is quite annoying actually.

“More than any man in my line of work deserves to,” Tommy replies smoothly.

“Three, four hours a night?” Alfie continues, genuinely intrigued.

Tommy snorts gently and a strange smile twitches at the corner of his mouth as he reaches into his pocket for cigarettes, a small tell that shows he's playing for time. _Fuck, less then that_ Alfie surmises. “It’s the price we pay for the lives we lead, eh?” Tommy says, once his cigarette is lit and he’s blowing smoke into the air above him.

“May very well be,” Alfie says, because he’s no stranger to the nightmares, but he’d bet good money that he manages better than Tommy.“You wanna sleep tonight?” he asks, voice low and deliberate, because fuck it, there's no point beating around the bush. He knows Tommy has business in town tomorrow, and Tommy _knows_ he knows. He is achingly aware that this is a very careful dance, that he may be the one leading with his feet but it’s up to Tommy whether he follows. He can see the way Tommy is looking at him intently, trying to read the true meaning behind his words, like it wasn't bloody obvious enough. His back has straightened and he hasn't answered, but then again, he hasn’t looked away either. 

“I bet you ten pounds I can make you sleep better than you have in months, mate,” Alfie pushes.

“Is that right?” Tommy asks, staring straight ahead as if focused entirely on the fight. When the bell rings to signal the end of the round he exhales a slow cloud of smoke. "You're lucky I'm a gambling man," he says, before dropping his cigarette on the floor and stubbing it out slowly with the ball of his foot. Alfie looks down at the gleaming black boot; he hasn't even smoked half of it he notes, before following Tommy towards the exit. He can't quite believe it was that easy. 

____

An hour later they are standing in Alfie’s bedroom, fully dressed, kissing heatedly, when Tommy breaks away. “You have indoor plumbing?" he asks.

"It's Camden, not bloody Cairo. Of course I've got indoor fuckin' plumbing.”

"Good. I need a shower.” 

“Sure, right,” Alfie says, slightly thrown but trying not to show it. Tommy's already stripping off his tie and his jacket. “Go ahead, first door on the left. Towels on the shelf.” _Indoor plumbing...patronising git._ It might not be a mansion, but it's a nice enough townhouse whatever Lord fucking Shelby might think. It’s got everything Alfie wants and that’s all that matters, innit, because no one other than himself and his maid ever sets foot in the place. Sure he might attend the odd dinner or religious celebration, because he's well known in the Jewish community and he has a certain profile to maintain, but he _never_ hosts. _Never_ lets people in. Until today that is. So this is strange, yeah, uncomfortable if he really analyses it. Makes him wonder why he didn't just drive to a hotel actually … but then he does a lot of questionable things where Tommy’ Shelby’s involved. 

He can hear the water running on the other side of the wall as he bends down to take off his shoes and socks. He really shouldn't be surprised that Tommy would want to be as immaculate when naked as he is when dressed, it's just a shame that it's interrupted the flow of things just when they where warming up so nicely. Alfie strips down to his trousers and sits atop the bedclothes to wait, picking up the book on his bedside table to keep his mind occupied. He must actually succeed in concentrating on it briefly, because when the door handle turns a few minutes later he is momentarily startled, then he almost wonders if he's dreaming because the sight of Tommy walking towards him, water dripping from his hair, white towel tucked around his slim waist … well it’s too perfect to be real. He looks like some sort of classical painting … or a marble sculpture ... all sharp angles and smooth planes. The things he wants to do to Tommy will send him straight to fucking hell without a doubt – which is a price he is absolutely willing to pay – ten times over if needs be.

Tommy strolls cautiously towards the side of the bed, eyes clearly scanning Alfie's naked torso. It's unnerving having someone look at him like this, having someone dare look at him at all. But that’s just one of the things that makes Tommy special isn’t it? The way he’s too brave for his own fuckin’ good; never afraid to look, to stare, to glare right into your black soul.Alfie grabs him, has to, yanks him by the wrist and down onto the bed in a move so fast and forceful that Tommy gasps. Within seconds Alfie has rolled him straight onto his back and is lying on top, forearms either side of his head, boxing him in. 

"_Fuuuuck_," he breathes, when he’s settled, eyes roaming shamelessly over Tommy’s face, his neck, his chest. The initial shock on Tommy’s face has shifted to a look of mild amusement, no doubt in response to the flagrant desire in Alfie's eyes. _Smug bastard,_ Alfie thinks, although he can hardly blame the man. When you look like Tommy Shelby you're bound to become accustomed to a certain level of appreciation, to a degree of _attention_. Well, he's got Alfie's attention alright, and he's gonna have it all fucking night. 

The moment weighs heavily on Alfie, because having Tommy here in his house, in his bed … is _signifcant_. No getting away from it. But whether _Tommy_ thinks it’s significant … well, that is an entirely different matter. The impassive mask he wears gives Alfie precious little clue as to whether he sees this a big deal or a quick fuck or a means to some other end. What he _does_ see, because his well-honed powers of observation have not deserted him entirely, is impatience. Tommy is impatient to get on with …. whatever it is he thinks they have come here to get on with. And _that_ won’t do. Alfie is _not_ going to have this moment wrecked by haste. And so he traces his fingers lightly through Tommy’s wet hair, hovering hesitantly over his lips. “_Slowly_…” he warns, looking him straight in the eyes. “Fucking _slowly._” He pauses for a moment – making sure that his message has sunk in – before he presses their lips together, opening his mouth until their tongues meet, gratified by Tommy's tentative response. He can’t help but groan at the heat and the softness, a low rumble in his chest that echos in the quiet of his room and is matched with a sigh from Tommy. No one is watching, no one is waiting and the rest of the night is theirs.

This level of intimacy is something Alfie hasn’t felt often in his life, the closeness of skin against skin, the warmth, the feel of Tommy's hands resting lightly on his bare shoulders. It’s just not allowed to men of his persuasion – more used to taking pleasure in hurried snatches, in alleys or theatres or certain clubs – and almost always with their clothes on. Alfie drinks it in, wants to lick and suck every inch of pale, freckled flesh, to feel those muscles flex and roll beneath the skin, to take his time and draw more sounds from Tommy's swollen lips. To make him fucking _dissolve_.

It's dangerous how much he’s letting his guard down, how much he _wants_ this. His body starts rocking on pure instinct, slowly but definitely, in a casual imitation of fucking. Maybe it’s that movement that does it, or the promise behind it, but he feels Tommy tense beneath him, put his chin to his chest and break the kiss to look down at the hips grinding against him. 

“What?” Alfie says, lifting his head, as if it weren't fucking obvious that Tommy is overthinking this. Not entirely comfortable with the idea of it, he guesses, although his body is responding just fine. He presses his forehead firmly against Tommy's and forces his head back onto the pillow. "It's all fine," he whispers, staring at him.

“Thought I was here to sleep,” Tommy says, voice like factory smoke.

“Oh don’t worry, you will,” Alfie says, grinding his hips harder. “I’ll make sure of that.” He feels Tommy push against him, hands braced against his chest as if to force him up or off. It's futile, Alfie is stronger, heavier and has all the leverage in his current position, but if Tommy wants to feel like he's resisting then fine, he can go with that. He lets his full weight fall onto the smaller man laid out beneath him and leans down to kiss his neck, biting into his shoulder in a greedy gesture that’s deliberately none-too-gentle. When Tommy grunts at the weight and the pain Alfie just licks over the teeth marks and chuckles; it's not a malicious laugh, but it infuriates Tommy nonetheless. The next thing Alfie knows there's a knee jabbed between his legs. It doesn't quite hit its target full force, restricted by the towel still wrapped around Tommy’s hips, but fucking hell, that is a step too far, innit? His hand flies up on pure impulse to grip the slender throat, no thought as to the context. "That's how you want to play it, hmm?" he says, glaring furiously as Tommy's face flushes in his grasp. Alfie's angry, genuinely angry, because a bit of resistance is charming enough but a knee in the crown jewels is _not_. He wedges his own knee between Tommy's thighs, where it most definitely will not miss its target, and presses up hard enough to be threatening.

"Here's how this is gonna work," he starts, voice low and slow. "You are going to _listen_ to me, and you are going to get what you came here for. Hmm. You can even pretend you don't want it if that satisfies some deep-seated prejudices ... some latent Catholic guilt. But you knee me in the fucking balls again and I will not be responsible for my actions. Got it?" Tommy’s eyes are wide and defiant but his body is achingly still; it seems even he isn't stupid enough to argue when he’s trapped between a hand on his throat and a knee on his groin. They glare at each other for several long seconds, each trying to read the other's mind, but Alfie doesn't miss the way Tommy's pupils widen. _Yeah, he wants this._

“You need to relinquish some of that control. Let me take care of you. I'll make you sleep like a _baby_ Thomas,” he says, with absolute certainty, slowly releasing the pressure from his grip, feeling Tommy's chest rise as he inhales deeply but remains otherwise rigidly still. The air in the room feels static, as though even the walls are listening. “But first," he snarls, "first I am gonna pick you apart, mate. From the inside out. Piece by fucking piece…”

He leans down to kiss Tommy’s collarbone, nipping along the thin skin. “And you are gonna hate me for it,” he growls darkly, directly into Tommy’s ear, “and you are gonna beg me for more.”

He licks a line up Tommy's neck, feeling his adam's apple move as he swallows slowly. "I don't beg," he says.

“That's what you think, sweetheart.” 

“Fuck off,” Tommy snarls, and the venom in his voice is momentarily startling. Alfie pauses and pulls back.

“S’my fuckin’ house, mate, I’m not going anywhere. You wanna fuck off then you fuck off. Put your precious little suit back on and trot straight out that door.” Alfie nods towards the hallway. "What is it eh? You scared of getting fucked? Or scared of liking it?"

Tommy's eyes blaze, he tries to sit up, to shunt against the weight above him, but Alfie just grabs both of his wrists and forces them down above his head. He clamps his knees either side of Tommy’s hips and chuckles at the ease with which he has him pinned.“Or maybe both, hmm?” he says, glaring through dark eyes. “I don't think you really want to go anywhere, do you Tommy? I think you wanna switch that clever head off and let me _show_ you things. Let me _wreck_ you." 

He doesn’t even wait for a reaction, just reaches for the tie that's strewn on the other side of the bed and starts fastening it to the headboard – because if Tommy needs help to submit to this then Alfie is more than happy to oblige. “Hands up,” he says gruffly, preparing for a fight. To his surprise Tommy obeys with nothing more than a slow blink and a deep sigh, as if he’s just made some mildly irksome concession for the sake of a business deal, not offered himself prostrate to a gangster with a reputation for insanity. Then again, he's always got off on risk, hasn't he? He looks like he might just throw in an eye-roll to boot. And if Alfie can't quite believe what he is being gifted, then he keeps that thought to himself. Tommy welcomed the surrender last time, in his office; Alfie _saw_ what he needed and gave it. This time he's going to give more. “I am gonna make you feel _so_ good, Tommy,” he says, meaning every damn word, as he trails kisses down his chest. "You won’t regret this.”

“I already am," Tommy replies, “you arrogant fuck.”

"Hmmm. Arrogance is in fact one if my better qualities," Alfie mumbles distractedly, because he’s now busy letting his mouth explore the skin that’s stretched out beneath him: the tattoos, the freckles, the scattered scars. He pinches gently at the hardening nipples and smiles when Tommy gasps. He must have done something good or right in his life to deserve the way those blue, blue eyes are looking at him now, wide and wary and filled with need. 

He lets his tongue trail down Tommy's abdomen, opening the white towel still tucked around his middle and groans aloud at the sight that greets him – hard and heavy and right fucking _there_ – begging to be touched. He wraps both hands around that narrow waist and lets them slide slowly down to rest on his pelvis. He can't help but stroke his thumbs over the prominent hipbones, amazed at how slender Tommy is – delicate, almost – beneath his layers of clothes. And then he lifts the hips up off the bed to wrap his mouth around that glorious cock, lapping and sucking like a starving man until Tommy moans obscenely.

"Oh fucking hell, the things I'm gonna do to you…" Alfie breathes as he lets Tommy’s body fall back onto the mattress.

"Show me," Tommy says huskily, panting through wetted lips.

“Bend your knees,” Alfie growls in reply, and Tommy responds immediately.

“If I knew your obedience was that easy to buy I’d have sucked your cock long ago,” Alfie hums, placing one hand on the back of Tommy’s thigh and pushing his leg up and out of the way.

"If I'd known it'd feel like that, I might have let you." 

Alfie uses the newfound space to cup Tommy’s balls, stroking them gently before wetting one thumb with spit and rubbing it along the smooth skin of his perineum. He lets it slide up and down for or moment or two before pressing firmly enough to make Tommy inhale sharply and thrust his hips. _Yeah, ok, he likes that._So Alfie keeps doing it, teasing and rubbing until Tommy’s breaths are deep and shaky, again on the cusp of a moan. Things work out absolutely fine for the next few minutes, Alfie makes himself comfortable, seated between Tommy’s thighs, uses his tongue and his fingers to draw small sounds from the man in his mouth who’s definitely starting to relax. But then he presses his thumb a bit lower – rubs over that tight little hole – and everything fucking stops. Tommy's hips stop, his moans stop, his fucking breathing stops. And so Alfie stops, let's the cock drop out of his mouth and just looks up at Tommy who has closed his eyes and tightened up all over.

"S'all good," he says tenderly, "just trust me."

“Jesus, shut the fuck up,” Tommy gasps, “of course I don’t fucking trust you.”

“Bit late to realise that now, mate. Is that why you've clammed up tighter than a miser's moneybox?”

"S'fine... I'm fine,” Tommy says, voice settling, composure returning.

"That ain't exactly the message I’m getting…"

"M'fine, " Tommy repeats with more gravity. "S'just ..."

Alfie takes a deep breath and decides there’s no point in leaving this elephant in the room. “You've never slept with a man. I know. I’m not a total fuckin’ idiot.”

Tommy looks up at him deadpan, pouting with his bottom lip. “Wasn’t gonna say that.”

“No?” Alfie says, wondering if somehow he’s got this incredibly wrong.

“Was gonna say I’ve never slept with an insane, bearded Jew.”

The tension cracks for a moment as they both snigger nervously, a genuine smile crossing Tommy’s face, but when Alfie presses teasingly at the tight hole he tenses once again. It’s less than before, but even so...

“Seriously, are you tellin' me no woman's ever done _this_ …" Alfie says, pressing gently, before Tommy cuts him off.

“…Jesus fucking _Christ_, Alfie. Do we have to _talk_ about it?"

“No, no, but I do have to tell you that you have quite clearly been visiting the wrong whores, mate," Alfie says, unable to keep another smile from his lips. So he gets to be the first to cross this particular threshold? Tonight just keeps getting better. He reaches into his bedside drawer for oil, conscious that his every move is being watched as he sits back to slick his fingers. “Lucky for you that I am the _right_ type of whore,” he says as he holds one finger poised over Tommy’s entrance, circling gently with just the tip, not pushing, not probing, just savouring the weight of anticipation. 

"Eyes on me," he says calmly, when the air has settled again. But Tommy is looking steadfastly up at the headboard, his breaths so shallow they're silent. _Yeah, there it is alright, _that vulnerability, that seam of glorious gold. It makes Alfie want to turn him inside out, to decimate the hard layers and expose that valuable ore. He pulls one pale leg up and over his own – pushing the other down into the mattress, then pauses to take in this picture of surrender: Tommy’s arms tied together above his head, thighs splayed out wide. When Tommy looks back at him through those long, dark lashes his eyes say it all; he’s exposed, defenceless and nervous as hell; like a fox in a trap just waiting to be found. Alfie thinks that if he dies tomorrow this, right here, is the image he'll take to his grave. 

"Look at me. Relax,” he says placing his left hand flat across Tommy’s stomach, holding him still, steadying him with a warm, firm touch. Tommy holds his gaze, head tilted up boldy as Alfie finally pushes one finger into him in a slow, smooth movement. He flinches and clenches and slowly exhales, but his head drops and his eyes roll back as his barriers are forcefully breached. Alfie is utterly mesmerised, his brain so lust-fucked he can hardly process that Tommy has allowed him this. When he starts to move he does so gently, reverently…just slides his finger out and back in again…lets Tommy ease into the feeling. _Fuck_, he hardly recognises himself. “Shhh, s’all good. Just relax,” he whispers, unable to take his eyes off that one finger fucking into Tommy, so hot and slick and delightfully tight. The mere idea of what it'll feel like to actually fuck him makes him swallow and groan out loud.

Tommy just closes his eyes and accepts the gentle movements, muscles fluttering endearingly as he tries to follow that one simple instruction. To relax. After a few minutes Alfie dares to push further, to explore and curl and tentatively seek out that sensitive bundle of nerves. When he finds it he rubs at it steadily until he's rewarded with a throaty groan.

"Good?" he asks, unnecessarily, because the way Tommy’s starting to move says it all.

“Yes," Tommy whispers, “fuck it’s…" but his words are swallowed in a loud groan as Alfie presses down on his stomach and pushes in with a second finger.

“Jesus…fuck…” Tommy moans, and the note of panic in his voice makes Alfie groan sinfully. Soon he's curling both fingers, searching again for the specific spot that he knows will unravel Tommy from the inside. He strokes slowly, firmly, using the pads of his fingers in an even, regular motion. It's tighter and harder to manoeuvre than one finger, but he wants it to feel more intense. Tommy is looking at the ceiling, trying to keep the frown from his face.

"Just relax, it'll ease, it'll be worth it,” Alfie says, trying to soothe him or reassure him. “Listen to me, switch off that brain.” 

Tommy hums quietly in response, his face already softening as he adjusts to the feelings, the fullness, the motion inside. Alfie’s not so much fucking into him now, focused more on those little strokes and pretty soon Tommy’s hips roll gently, pushing back against the fingers. Alfie knows when he’s found just the right rhythm because his mouth drops open wide.

“Oh,” he gasps, “oh… oh fuck…oh fuck.” And that’s it, they settle into a pattern, punctuated by Tommy’s increasingly guttural sounds.

There’s no doubt his body is responding to the unfamiliar pleasure, the liquid trickling down the side of his cock is impossible to miss. And oh how slowly Alfie is going to coax it out of him, until he's a delicious, desperate mess. He presses firmly onto the now engorged gland, eliciting a loud, shaky, “ahhh,” before Tommy starts panting heavily and Alfie decides to relent. He does it again, harder this time, until Tommy's knees lift up and he lets out a pained cry. He looks at Alfie wide-eyed, horrified and yet, somehow, strangely trusting. It sends a wave of blood straight to Alfie's groin. 

“Touch me,” Tommy whispers after several minutes of the same.

“Your cock?” Alfie asks

“Yes," he says urgently, “God, yes…” words dissolving into a moan.

“I don’t think I need to, mate, because _this,_” Alfie says, stroking his prostate firmly, “_this_ is working just fine. It must be, look how hard you are. Look how much you’re _leaking_.” Tommy lets out a long, strangled groan and looks longingly towards his engorged cock. He pulls at the ties round his wrists and whines in frustration.

”Yeah, and those pretty noises you're making ... there's gonna be a lot more of those before we're done."Alfie can see the intensity building, how he’s slowly succumbing, giving in to the ungraspable pleasure. But he wants more…he wants Tommy squirming with it…desperate…unable to control his cries.

Tommy grits his teeth and hisses, thrusting his cock into the air in a futile search for the friction that Alfie is refusing to provide.

"You may as well save your energy. There’s nothing to rub against."

“Alfie, just fucking…”

“Just, what?” Alfie interrupts

“Just touch me,” he says as his head flops back down heavily onto the bed.

“The only place I'm touching you darling, is _right here_," Alfie says, emphasising the last two words with two hard, deliberate strokes inside. Tommy bucks in response and lets out a shaky breath.

“My cock…just touch my cock,” he repeats.

“But it’s gonna be so much better like this, having it stroked out of you, slowly. So much more shameful," Alfie continues, unsure whether it's the filthy words or the fingers in his arse that are getting to Tommy most. He doesn't know and doesn't care. The result is the same: Tommy's composure is starting to crumble, his tongue is loosening, his movements are increasingly erratic. He looks glorious. Alfie strokes his free hand down one milk-white hip and coos softly to tell him just that. Tommy shudders hard under the touch, or maybe the compliments, whimpering and moaning with increasing abandon. 

Alfie knows this is sweet agony; a feeling like nothing else, all consuming and yet almost impossible to capture or pin down. He has no impulse to be cruel about it, although he can’t deny a certain desire to ruin Tommy for anyone else… to lead him down this slow, agonising route to a level of pleasure he’s never known with anyone else. To fucking _own_ him. 

A continuous line of glassy fluid is now connecting Tommy’s cock to his stomach and running off his hip onto the towel. Alfie watches Tommy’s fists clenching and releasing, his hips moving erratically and places a hand on his pelvis to hold him, fingers never pausing, "still," he says softly, "stay still. Just _feel_ it." Tommy stops thrusting his hips, lets out another high-pitched moan. "That's it, that's better," Alfie says, utterly enthralled. Tommy's eyes have glazed over, like he's going someplace else.

“You're gonna come for me. Like this, Tommy,” he says, “I'm gonna press it out of you drip by beautiful drip." 

“No,” Tommy pants.

“No? You want me to stop?

“Yes! No... Jesus…fucking…_Christ_…” he whines, his voice so high it's unrecognisable. 

Alfie is struggling to maintain his own composure because Tommy is increasingly desperate - flushed and sweating, hips writhing, cock leaking – he looks like a fucking wet dream. Alfie wonders if he’ll ever be able to look at him wearing a suit again or whether he’ll always just picture him like this – a filthy, wanton mess.

It doesn’t even matter that he's not getting anything out of this himself. Because he knows he could push into that hot, tight arse right now and damn well take his pleasure – it’s not like that thought hasn’t crossed his mind. It’s just that he wouldn't stop what he's doing now if you paid him ten thousand pounds, not when he has Tommy laid open beneath him, stripped back, _revealed_. 

“Please,” Tommy pants, drawing Alfie out of his thoughts, "fucking _please_…”

Alfie just smiles, unable to resist gloating. “And you said you wouldn’t beg.”

"I can't fucking come like this..."

Another few minutes of relentless attention and Tommy is trembling all over; his legs are quivering, his voice is shaking, he seems barely in control. Alfie's fingers ache and his back is sore and when the grandfather clock chimes in the hallway he realises how long they’ve been here. But he's not going to stop, not going to slow down, not until Tommy has fallen apart. He is absolutely relentless, but then Tommy _is_ the prize.

He pays wrapt attention, as if studying an exotic specimen, trying to catalogue every sound and expression and reaction that Tommy allows to escape. He is arching and mewling and gasping ... mouth hanging open, body leaking instinctively, no trace of the usual veneer. 

Tommy's sounds become even less controlled, a series of high-pitched, continuous cries. His voice, when he dares to use it, is barely a whimper, gasping the same few words, "I can't, Alfie ... I can't."

"Shhhh," Alfie murmurs sympathetically, "and yes. You can."

“Please, fuck! You bastard,” he whines when Alfie speeds things up. His face is bright red, arms straining, eyelids fluttering.

“S’not my fault you’re so fucking responsive, now, is it mate?”

“I can’t, Alfie, I fucking _can’t_…” he says, “fucking, fuck…please...”

"So pretty when you're desperate," Alfie says, voice low and undeniably smug. Tommy looks shocked and strained and furious, like he's forgotten himself entirely, would do _anything_ to get his release. And still the liquid seeps from his cock. Who’d have thought it wouldn’t take a pickaxe to break him apart, just two carefully aimed fingers.

"Please, I can't," Tommy repeats, and he sounds like he could cry. Fucking _hell_...

"Please," he gasps, as Alfie continues to work his fingers, "please just fucking touch me. Or untie me. Or touch me."

"Your poor little cock needs to learn that it does not need to be in a _mouth_ or a _hand_ or a _cunt_," Alfie chides as he curls and strokes mercilessly.

“You’re the cunt,” Tommy snarls, which only makes the fingers on his prostate work faster and harder and firmer, until he is gasping, shouting, “don’t, it hurts, fucking don’t...” so of course Alfie most assuredly _does_, until Tommy is whining shamelessly, hips rolling against nothing, a high pitched wail in his throat and fucking hell…he is coming ... loudly, unashamedly, curling onto his side as if he's trying to escape it. One leg kicks weakly at Alfie whilst the same relentless stream of pearlescent liquid trickles out of him. There's no ejaculation, no sudden rush and his cock stays achingly hard. Alfie can feel Tommy's muscles spasming around his fingers in long waves that make him thrash and groan. It seems to go on and fucking _on_ until he almost feels sorry for the man. Almost.

"Stop, just fucking _stop_ for Christ's sake..." Tommy gasps, he's curled into the foetal position, or as close to it as he can get with his hands above his head. The thing is, Alfie has moved with him, is kneeling above him, fingers still very much in position and working that same spot. Because when he said he wanted to pick Tommy apart he fucking meant it. He smooths Tommy's hair, shushes him gently, waits for the panting to subside – although his fingers never relent. "Again, Tommy," he whispers, voice calm but stern, and within twenty seconds Tommy jolts and cries out and writhes through a second, drawn-out orgasm, cursing beneath his breath. He looks breathtaking, enduring every drop of exquisite suffering that Alfie doles out.

"Stop...stop," Tommy says when he realises Alfie is still going, still working at him, giving him no time to recover, just pressing and circling relentlessly until he is once again a trembling wreck, pleading with him incessantly, "enough...please...you can't...I can't..." barely breathing between the words. Alfie growls wickedly as he strokes a third sluggish orgasm from Tommy’s exhausted body, watching him shudder and spasm and curl up as the room is filled with a continuous, high-pitched whine. The noise only stops when finally, Alfie pulls his aching hand away. Tommy almost cries with relief. He lies there wide-eyed and shaking, totally overwraught, gasping and twitching as he tries to catch his breath. Alfie kicks off his trousers and crawls over to place a kiss to his head. "My hands..." Tommy whispers so quietly Alfie barely hears him.

"Yeah, yeah, hands," Alfie says, straddling his hips as he leans up to the headboard to untie him. Tommy's head lolls languidly to the side. He looks shattered, mottled and blotchy and drenched in sweat. His gaze is strangely vacant, bewildered even, and he won't look Alfie in the eye. Fuck. He's just had three intense, protracted orgasms and yet he looks _upset_, chest heaving, breaths stuttering in a way that sounds dangerously close to tears. Apprehension pools in Alfie's stomach, fear that he's gone too far, fucked this up. He rubs the wrists he’s just untied and leans down to kiss the dark, damp hair. Tommy jerks away from his lips.

"Look at me," he says, quietly, but when Tommy rolls his head round slowly he stares up with worryingly blank eyes. It's as though he's withdrawn, disengaged himself entirely. The way he's sprawled out on his back he looks lifeless, spent. 

"Tommy, you with me? S'alright," he mutters, as if saying it out loud will make it true. Alfie's heart sinks, realisation slowly dawning that it might be far easier to pick Tommy apart than it is to put him back together. That he might not appreciate having been laid so bare. "You are fucking _perfect_ Tommy," he says, stroking at his hair, moving it out of his face. He's aware that Tommy's cock is still a hard line, unbelievably, jabbing Alfie's conscience as much as his hip. He leans down to grasp it, hand slipping in the abundance of precum, as he strokes it gently once, twice. Tommy doesn't even react to the touch, just whispers, "enough."

"You want me to stop?" Alfie asks.

"What do you fucking think?" he spits. _Shit ... he's pissed. Upset and pissed_. Alfie flounders for a moment, unsure how to fix this, how to redress the balance, because yes, he wanted to _push_ Tommy, but not to push him _away_. The risk of him fucking off permanently is suddenly very real and absolutely not bloody happening. He cannot fathom losing this … whatever it is … cannot let this be the only time he has this beautiful, vulnerable man in his bed. He needs to do something to make it right, _anything_.

His response is completely instinctual ... his body doesn't even engage with his head ... before he can think himself out of it he lifts his hips, hovers over Tommy and pushes back firmly onto his hot, wet hardness. He screw his eyes shut, fucking _has_ to, he hasn't done this in years and it’s, well, it's a lot...fuckin' hurts if the truth be told. He grunts and grits his teeth, holding very, very still until he can bring himself to sink down lower, to take in the full length. He hears Tommy exhale deeply beneath him, but he can't look, can't move, can't _think_ – oblivious to anything other than the burning fullness in his arse and how much he needs to relax, breathe through it, suck it up. _Fuck_. If this is what he does around Tommy, he's doomed isn't he? Totally fucking doomed. His eyes are still closed when he feels hands move to his hips, gripping him gently, just resting there, warm and soft, not even willing him to move. A gravelly voice rasps, "Alfie."

"Yeah, alright move, fuckin _move_," he snarls after a minute or so, unable to believe what he’s doing. Tommy holds him down as he rocks up gently and finally Alfie opens his eyes to look. Tommy looks _present_. Thank fuck. "Yeah, you're back now, aintcha?" Alfie says without malice, because it's impossible to feel anything other than supremely fucking blessed right now. Tommy looks bloody obscene - dark-eyed and hungry and, frankly, amazed.

"Thought I didn't need my cock in anything, eh?" he rasps.

"Yeah, well change of plan. Don't get used to it," Alfie says. "This ain't happening again, alright? Not like this. Next time it is very definitely gonna be _my_ cock in _your arse_, mate. Just so we’re clear." God, he needs to stop thinking about that, he's going to last about 30 seconds at this rate. With that thought he braces his arms against Tommy's chest and starts moving, fucking himself down carefully to start with, but then with more serious intent. He watches every reaction on Tommy's face as he hovers right on the edge of losing it – for the fourth time that night. And fucking hell does Tommy lose it, gripping Alfie's hips hard as he thrusts up selfishly into him, grunting shamelessly with the effort. The look of dark desire on his beautiful face as he abandons himself again is, well, _biblical_. Alfie feels the hot spurts fill him and takes his own cock in hand to follow immediately over the edge. 

Afterwards, he lies where he falls, slumped heavily over Tommy’s trembling body, breathing into his neck. He can't move himself, can't quite process what the hell just happened, how he's ended up letting Tommy fuck him...to make _Tommy_ feel good. Not that he doesn't feel good himself. Fuck, he feels _amazing_ \- loose and sated and strangely fucked open in a way he'll remember for days. Tommy's hands are holding his upper arms, smoothing gently over his skin a handful of times before slowly falling still. It feels warm, quiet. Nice. By the time he eventually rolls off, grabbing the towel to clean himself, Tommy is a boneless sprawl in the bed. Alfie half shoves, half rolls him over to one side, pulling a blanket over his shoulders, but would swear he's already asleep. He lies behind him, wondering how close is too close, daring a hand on his bicep, a kiss to his shoulder before he closes his eyes and lets sleep swallow him too. He's fucked, he thinks as he drifts into darkness. Metaphorically and literally _fucked_.


	2. Part II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before. Tommy does a lot of thinking. That's about it I'm afraid. He doesn't always have the answers.
> 
> So, I promised this ages ago and it's taken rather a time. Sorry!

He's staring patiently into blackness as the first rays of sunlight slice their way across the wooden floor. He watches them slowly lengthen, cutting across the rug as they hurry towards the bedroom door. The door by which he needs to leave. Now, preferably. Before Alfie Solomons wakes up and finds him here, makes some smug comment about sleep or winning . . . about four fucking times.

Four paces, that's all it'll take: blankets off, legs out, four steps, turn the handle. But it's like he's frozen; the impulse to flee thwarted by the fear of proving what he already knows—that everything feels sharp—every movement for the rest of the day will remind him of last night.

He wants to shrivel and shrink until he's disappeared entirely from this bed, from this house, from fucking Camden, and coagulated back in his own life: collar, cufflinks, cap. Control. For what fucking _reason_ did he cede control so easily? The undeniable evidence lays on the pillow inches from his eyes: his wrists still red from pulling on the ties he so willingly let Alfie bind. Why was he so bloody _reckless_?

The bed creaks slightly behind him, and he closes his eyes as a hand comes to rest on his shoulder. The tentative touch, like a butterfly landing, makes Tommy flinch. Hard. "Jesus _Christ_," he hisses, rolling his shoulder in a shoddy attempt to disguise it as irritation. Alfie just inhales sharply and moves his hand away. "Alas, no, I am an entirely different Jew."

Tommy rolls onto his back, feigning ease, but when their shoulders touch he has to resist the reflex to flinch again.He drapes the back of one hand over his eyes instead.

"Okay, mate?" Alfie asks.

"Yeah," Tommy answers. Then, slowly realising that some reciprocation is probably in order, turns his head towards Alfie. "You?"

"Absolutely fucked," Alfie says to the ceiling.

If he weren't so on edge he'd laugh at Alfie's brutal honesty, his total lack of inhibition. Tommy envies him. His own carefully practiced nonchalance evades him entirely this morning, which is why, the second he feels Alfie's body turning in towards his, he sits bolt upright and swings his legs out of the bed. He clutches some item of clothing from the floor in an irrational fit of modesty and heads to the bathroom without another word. He expects some sort of insult or accusation to follow him, but there's nothing and when he returns a few minutes later Alfie is slumped against the headboard, glasses perched half-way down his nose, staring studiously at the book in his lap. Tommy dresses rapidly, glancing up every few seconds to find Alfie's gaze still directed at the pages. Thank fuck. He places his cap on his head, pulls it down low and clears his throat.

"I'll be off, then. Meeting at eight." Alfie looks up, peers over the top of his glasses like a world-weary schoolmaster who's heard it all before and says, "yeah." The word rolls out of him like a long wave breaking onto smooth rocks, thrumming with a powerful energy that builds and threatens but then recedes from whence it came.

Two minutes later, and he is sliding out of the back gate like a fox caught out by the daylight, running for the safety of its lair. He takes the narrow alley that leads onto the canal. Nowhere will feel safe today, but putting distance between himself and this house—and whatever the fuck happened last night—feels like the only viable option. There's no escape from the thoughts and images that already hover like spectres around his peripheral vision. He fucked Alfie Solomons. Actually _fucked_ him. Yet all he can hear is his own voice in his ears, wrecked and pathetic and desperate. He feels sick. 

He makes it through two meetings. He's clipped and condescending in the first; lax and ambivalent in the second. His mind is busy elsewhere, trying to fathom this new reality in which he looks and sounds the same as he did yesterday but feels like a different man. “Mr Shelby, is everything OK?” the foreman’s voice sounds distant, like he’s speaking through a thick pane of glass (although the only barrier between them is an overly-cluttered desk).

“Yes,” Tommy says, looking up to the narrow slit of window that’s spilling watery light onto the man’s bald head. “That’s all for now. My brother’ll be down next week. He’ll look at things in more detail.”

Then Tommy stands, overcome by the urge to walk, to leave the dingy confines of these quayside buildings that too closely mirror his mood. When he steps outside it's little better, the sky is covered in low clouds the colour of earl grey tea. He craves the sun, something to warm his skin and burn through the blanket of humiliation that has draped itself over his shoulders.

It's like he’s floating above himself, watching with barely-held interest as a man in a long black coat strides purposefully down Rotherhithe’s back-alleys, along cobbled streets, past rows of tightly-packed houses that could almost remind him of Small Heath (except that the air is different, not cleaner, exactly, but less dense somehow). Perhaps it’s the wide sweep of the Thames, just a stone’s throw away, snaking like an artery that leads out of the city, to fields, to freedom, to the sea. 

And so he walks. And smokes. And walks. Not sure where he’s going and not really caring so long as he keeps moving. Eventually the narrow streets open out until he finds himself on the edge of a sprawling park, spring grass laid out like an emerald blanket on the side of a gently sloping hill. It never fails to amaze him, this habit London has of secreting away its open spaces— enormous swathes of startling green hidden around corners or behind buildings—the privilege of those who know where to look. Wide gravel paths criss-cross the green like seams on a hand-stitched quilt, all diagonals, none straight. They point to the top of the hill, where the Royal Observatory sits, quietly surveying its corner of south east London. 

He climbs the hill, removing his cap before the wind does it for him, until he's stood at the top in the blustery air by the buildings. The view is impressive: the prim white columns of the Royal Naval College and Hospital standing out proudly against the green; the river beyond looping around the Isle of Dogs; further west the Bank of England, The City itself, the beating heart of the world’s financial markets. And whilst Tommy might hanker after open land, after hills and brooks and woodland, he can see the beauty in this. The energy; the potential. This messy patchwork of industry and commerce and chaos, so seemingly disorganised and unruly, yet belying a dark and ruthless efficiency. Alfie's city.

The thought hits him in the stomach like a punch, pulls him back to last night, to the things he said, to the sounds he made, to that look of intense compassion in Alfie's eyes and . . . oh god . . . he needs to sit down. He folds himself onto the ground, exactly where he is, where the cobbled surrounds of the buildings give way to the blanket of grass. He hugs his knees and looks down. 

Beneath his feet a strip of brass is set into the cobbles. It starts somewhere in the building behind him and carries on who-knows-how-far in front, down the hill and out of sight. He's never been here before but he knows what it is—The Greenwich Meridian—the imaginary line between the North and South Poles. A simple strip of brass, that marks out zero degrees. He sits with his feet either side and runs his hand over the smooth metal. It's warm to the touch, where the afternoon sun is now winning out against the clouds.

It's not so different from all those lines he's crossed before: the first time he threatened a man; cut a man; killed a man. Just happens to be the first time he fucked a man. He's not sure why this one fills him with shame; it's not an emotion he's familiar with. Guilt, certainly. Fear, sometimes. But shame? No. It wasn't even meant to happen. Alfie was meant to fuck _him_. Maybe it would be easier if Alfie _had_ fucked him . . . had held him down and used him. Perhaps that's what he'd been hoping for. . . something hard and impersonal to get this thing out of his system.

It hadn’t even felt that big a decision last night. Just sex. Just another form of obliteration, like whisky or opium; a safe space in the eye of a violent storm. And the promise of sleep. But then Alfie had explored his body like a pioneer, had dug and delved through the gravel, rolled every little stone between his fingers as if trying to assess its value. Had looked and looked and in so doing had unearthed something even Tommy hadn’t known was there; a depth of longing, a willingness to be seen that he had never meant to admit—to himself or anyone else. Least of all Alfred fucking Solomons. The man is dangerous in more ways than Tommy could ever have known. 

He's had his one, hasn't he? Had Grace. It's more than he deserved and he has never expected to have it again. He shouldn't need or feel or _crave_ the way he does. And that's the most frightening thing of all. He rests his head on his knees and fights down the thoughts of Alfie's mouth on him; Alfie's fingers in him; the way Alfie so effectively unpicked the knots that usually hold him together. How could he have let himself unspool so completely? His heart is racing and his skin feels cold, despite the strength of the sun.

He's aware that there are people wandering nearby, avoiding the fully-grown man just sat on the ground, hugging his knees too tight. Behind him a father is explaining the brass line to his son. Tommy ignores them, lets the wind whip through his hair, around his collar, thinks of how warm Alfie’s breath had felt on his neck as he'd leant over to tie Tommy's wrists.

"Is this it? It doesn't look very impressive, dad," the lad behind him says.

"Well this, Billy, right here, is the line from which all of the world’s longitudes are drawn. From which every map and astronomical chart and even time itself is measured. So it might not look much, but it is. Sometimes the really important things are just there. No fanfare needed."

Something flutters in Tommy's stomach, a sudden memory of Alfie’s gaze—like acid—of how it stripped away all pretence until Tommy was so frayed at the edges that he wasn’t sure where he ended or began. He needs to take the unravelled ribbons of himself and wind them back together, tighter this time, so they won’t come undone. And yet he wants to come undone. Wants everything again: Alfie's hands, Alfie's mouth. Alfie's stare.

"You are standing at zero degrees, son. The start of everything. Or the end of everything. Depending on which way you look."

_Depending on which way you look_, Tommy thinks. Is he starting or finishing something here? Last night he thought he knew. Last night he was a fool. _Fuck it,_ he needs a drink.

He finds a pub by the river—The Trafalgar—takes a table by the window and looks out over the Thames. He's sunk two large whiskeys before the unease starts to thin out and meld with the longing that he's worked so hard to bury. To go back to Camden or to Small Heath? He orders food, looking out over the grey-green waters as he waits for it to arrive. May as well solve this as he's done so many times before: with a coin. He takes one from his pocket and flips it deftly into the air just as the waiter approaches. When he dares to look at the decision, the king's head stares back at him, half hidden by the ribbons of steam that rise lazily from the bowl that's appeared beside it. That's it then. He throws a handful of extra coins onto the wooden top, picks up his cap and leaves, striding straight past the confused looking waiter with a cursory nod of his head. 

He feels sick with anticipation as he searches for a cab outside. "Camden," he says to the driver. A deal or death maybe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably some period typical internalised homophobia. Not that I agree with it. But it's 1924.
> 
> And no, I don't think it occurs to our Tommy that Alfie might have any say in what happens next. Because it's all about him, right?
> 
> The next part will be up within a day or two. Hope you enjoy.


	3. Part III.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy's fight or flight instinct is having its own existential crisis and Alfie is watching it all, is toying with him like a cat with its paw on a mouse’s tail. The question isn't whether the cat will win, but how long it will draw out the struggle.

"Evening Alfie," he says, removing his cap on the doorstep.

Alfie, who's standing in his hallway in stocking-feet, widens his stance.

"What can I do you for, mate?"

"Came for the second course," Tommy says. His tone is casual to a fault, but the effect is no doubt undermined by the fact that he's pouting. He's honestly trying not to, but he can't quite control his lower lip. 

"Second course. Right." Alfie pulls a gingham tea-towel from his shoulder and proceeds to dry the spoon he's been holding. "And what if the kitchen's closed, mate?"

Tommy shrugs slightly. "Guess I'll go hungry."

"Or eat elsewhere. Hmm?"

"No. Don't wanna eat elsewhere." There's a pause, whilst Tommy, at least, considers the absurdity of conducting this entire conversation in metaphor. (Who knows what Alfie might be thinking because he's being a difficult bastard, isn't he?) "So, is it?"

"Is it what, mate?"

"Closed?"

"The kitchen?"

"Yes. The fucking _kitchen_, Alfie."

"That all depends, don't it?"

"On what?"

"On whether you're gonna piss off again before you've paid the bill."

Tommy looks at his feet and has to conceal the start of a smile. "Might even tip. Sorry. . ." he adds, as an after thought.

Alfie just sniffs and stands there, letting the apology hang whilst he continues to polish his spoon. When it's gleaming like the Queen's about to use it he finally says, "Sorry, hmmm? 'Bout last night or this morning?"

"This morning," Tommy answers. He clears his throat loudly and attempts to go on. "I'm not sorry about last night. Look, do you want to fu . . ."

"It's soup," Alfie cuts in.

"Soup?"

"The second course. . .oxtail. Suppose there's enough for two." With that, he turns and limps off down the hallway. Tommy guesses that's as much of an invitation as he’s likely to get, so steps inside, closing the front door behind him. He discards his coat and hat on the banisters and follows Alfie into the kitchen, where a large copper pan is steaming far too vigorously on the hob.

"Oh for fucks sake," Alfie moans, turning the dial on the range and mumbling various curses as he stirs what is, presumably, the aforementioned oxtail.

He looks so very human ... in his kitchen ... stirring soup.  There's a hole in one of his socks and his tea towel has fallen to the floor, and Tommy is overcome with the urge to put his hands on him, to make up for this morning's abrupt departure. Or maybe just because he wants to. He stops right behind Alfie, peering over his shoulder into the brown broth which is, if the acrid smell is anything to go by, ruined.  He tucks two fingers into Alfie's collarless shirt and pulls it down a fraction,  just  enough to press his lips to the warm skin below that disheveled hairline  . Alfie stops stirring and stays very still for long enough that Tommy starts to wonder if this was a mistake. If he's given too much away. If Alfie was, in fact, quite pleased to see the back of him this morning. But then he drops his shoulder and tilts his head, exposing another swathe of skin.  Tommy wraps an arm around his waist and presses kisses all the way along that thick muscle that travels down to his shoulder.  The  carefully  polished spoon clatters to the floor and Alfie turns, mumbling, “it's burnt to fuck anyway,” as he crowds Tommy backwards, kissing him with a fervour that seems to raise the temperature by about ten degrees.

It's not long before they make it upstairs, pulling each others’ shirts off with a sense of urgency. The calm Tommy had felt at the same point last night has vanished, replaced with a sense of danger. Because now he _knows_ that Alfie can strip him—not only of his clothes, but of his control—of his entire sense of _self_. And yet here he is. Wanting more. Wanting to be skinless. Torn open. His beating heart exposed. The thought alone makes him moan into Alfie’s mouth, a wanton sound that causes shame to bloom like fire in his belly, that makes Alfie grip him so tight he can’t breathe.  Maybe  it’s actually possible to squeeze the shame out,  maybe  the arms around his ribcage can do that, or  maybe  it’s  just  not important here. In Alfie’s bedroom. All he knows is that he doesn't want to stop; he wants to grab and kiss and fuck. Be fucked. He wants to finish what they started, to have that second course, to give to Alfie what Alfie gave to him last night.

It must be obvious, because when they scramble onto the bed, a wry smile pulls at the corner of Alfie's mouth. “Need you to say it, mate.”

“I want you to fuck me, Alfie.” He can feel his face flushing at the words, but he doesn’t break eye contact.

"I kind of figured." And _Jesus_ , if Alfie had any idea how Tommy's been feeling all day he wouldn't be this bloody _sure_ of himself.  It makes Tommy angry and irritable, and yet so hungry that he grabs Alfie's groin roughly through his trousers.

Alfie reacts lightening-fast, taking Tommy’s wrist in a tight grip and pulling his hand away. "First, you get these off. Get _everything_ the fuck off." He tugs hard at Tommy's waistband as he says it, then pushes himself up and heads to the bathroom.  Tommy fumbles with buttons and boots and garters, before flipping back the blankets and sliding into the bed.  It feels ridiculous—the domesticity of tucking his feet into clean sheets (they're definitely clean; he can feel the starch and smell the soap). When Alfie reappears he has a large towel over his shoulder and oil in his hand and Tommy's stomach flips like a landed fish. 

He watches as Alfie grabs three pillows and shoves them down to the middle of the bed, covering them  carefully  with the bath towel, like this has to be right.  “Over,” he barks, when he’s satisfied with his handiwork, pulling Tommy’s hand and dragging him onto the feather-filled mound.  For the first time tonight Tommy feels trepidation creep in, feels his insides curl as Alfie pushes him onto his stomach, pulls at his hips and positions his arse right over those pillows. It's demeaning. It's fucking insanity. His recent eagerness threatens to ricochet back on itself, like a catapult pulled and poised. He feels too exposed, or this feels too real; he pushes himself up on his arms, ready to move away, but then Alfie is right behind him ... laying over him, covering him, pushing him down onto the bed. The fuzz of chest and stomach hair on his back is strange—unfamiliar—but the weight is reassuring and he feels the tension ease. It's so unlike anything he's  been used  to, and yet he wants to give in.

“Can’t have you wrecking my bed,” Alfie breathes into Tommy’s ear. “Not now I know what a mess you make when you’re  properly  turned on.”  And Tommy hates the mix of desire and self-loathing that floods him at the words; hates how plush those lips feel on the tender spot behind his ear; hates how much he wants Alfie to fuck this feeling out of him. He presses his face into the mattress and covers his head with his hands.

“Don’t do that,” Alfie says, voice low and serious. He pulls one of Tommy's arms away and grips his jaw, forcing Tommy's face round to look at him. “Don’t hide, like you don’t want this.” And of course he fucking wants this, he wouldn't _be_ here otherwise.  But Alfie’s eyes are searching for something behind Tommy’s own—for uncertainty  perhaps, or weakness—and Tommy responds the only way he knows how: with a cold, dull glare. Defiant. Practiced.  Invariably  effective. So why is Alfie tutting and shaking his head in response? Why is he running the backs of his fingers down Tommy’s face so  gently  it feels like a provocation?

"Yeah ... you see that brave front ain't gonna work here. Not when you're blushing like a virgin in a whore-house."

Anger flashes through Tommy—hot and fierce and uncontrolled—and he flings his fist back hard, aiming for Alfie’s face. He’s  wildly  inaccurate, of course, pinned as he is on his stomach. Alfie catches the fist with one hand and shakes his head again. 

Tommy's fight or flight instinct is having its own existential crisis and Alfie is watching it _all_, is toying with him like a cat with its paw on a mouse’s tail. The question isn't whether the cat will win, but how long it will draw out the struggle. Tommy tries to turn over onto his side, to shift the heavy weight above him and regain some semblance of power.  Alfie lets him twist  just  enough to bring their mouths together, but that's all it takes for Tommy to know that he's not alone in this. He can feel the heat of his own desire mirrored on Alfie’s tongue, so clear he can taste it, and as  quickly  as his anger flared it gently ebbs away. “Fuck me,” he says again, mumbling the words against Alfie’s mouth.

Alfie growls, long and low, letting go of the fist he's been holding to run one hand down Tommy’s side. Very soon slick fingers are retracing last night’s steps, opening Tommy up. He groans and lifts his knee out to the side, giving Alfie access. It’s easier than last night, but tender. Definitely tender. And much as Tommy thinks he's keeping that fact hidden, Alfie seems to register anyway. “You alright?” he asks, brow knitted, and Tommy feels naked in a brand new way.

“M’fine,” he says, and he wants to mean it, but then Alfie’s fingers move and he smothers a gasp and Alfie withdraws them completely.  He comes back with more oil and starts again, slower this time, smoothing Tommy’s back—long, slow glides with the heel of his hand that start at the base of his spine and finish between his shoulder blades—and it feels better. Good. And then Alfie starts using his mouth, kissing Tommy’s neck and shoulders, licking down his back. He can feel himself sinking into this, slowly letting go, and he fights not to zone out completely. This is exactly where the danger lies, in the way Alfie can just take over, in the way Tommy _lets_ him. 

“Fuck me Alfie, for god’s sake.”

"All in good time," Alfie whispers, like he's trying to string this out. Which would be typical of Alfie, wouldn't it? To make Tommy wait, to make him desperate, because now he knows he can. Alfie's fingers are playing him—like a cellist plucking at strings—working over that perfect spot that turns Tommy's legs to liquid. And every note that Tommy sounds is an admission, an invitation. He tries so hard to play it flat, to withhold the little flinches and sighs that are feeding Alfie's ego. But fear is creeping beneath the pleasure, threatening his resolve. He's terrified that this is going to go the same way as last night, that Alfie's going to keep him on the brink of spilling, like an overfilled glass. "Don't you dare," he pants, "don't you dare do what you did last night. I mean it. I can't. . ."

"Shhhhh," Alfie says, "just quieten down, yeah?" And god it sounds so _patronising_, like Tommy's some innocent princess to be soothed. He quietens all the same, enough to hear Alfie reaching for more oil, to feel it running between his thighs, to hear the lewd squelch of wet flesh as Alfie shifts position. An arm comes round beneath Tommy's torso, slipping between his chest and the mattress to pull their bodies closer. It feels _good _to be squeezed so tight, held flat against Alfie's chest—like he's _wanted_. He barely notices the fingers being removed until a dull force presses right against his entrance. He breathes out deeply and tries to relax, but his body seems hell-bent on ignoring his brain's instructions. Alfie pinches Tommy's nipple, _hard_, as he pushes himself inside, and maybe that was a kindness because _fuck_ it hurts more than he expected. Hurts in a way that he's never felt, that he can't writhe or shout or rail against. In a way that renders him mute and static and makes him afraid to breathe.

To his credit, Alfie's not moving at all, just holding still, barely even _in_ Tommy realises with dismay. "S'alright, I'm not goin' further. Not till you tell me," he says, which should probably be some comfort, except that the only comfort Tommy can think of right now involves _not_ having anything in his arse.

All he can picture is Alfie's cut cock, red and hard and right fucking _there_. Inside him. He's had teeth smashed and bones broken and bullets dug out with a spoon. This shouldn't be so bloody _difficult_, so blindingly intense.

"I know, mate. I fuckin' well know don't I?" Alfie says. "So you can drop the fucking pretence, yeah?"

_Pretence?_ _What fucking pretence_? He can't move, can't talk, he can feel it in his fucking _diaphragm_ for God's sake. He buries his face once more.

"It hurts, yeah? And you're gonna feel it. Like I've been feeling _you_. All day. Every fuckin' time I move." 

And perhaps that should make Tommy feel better, but the thought that Alfie knows _exactly_ what this is doing to him makes everything ten times worse. Like this is a challenge and Alfie's the victor, has proved himself more stoic. It makes Tommy feel weak and useless, makes him rasp out words he doesn't mean, "I'm fine, just move, get on with it." And so Alfie starts to push himself in—so slowly that Tommy can feel every inch, can picture it in his mind. "_Fuuuuck_," he moans and he's appalled at how raw his voice sounds.

Alfie makes a strange noise and stills his hips again. He pushes his free hand beneath Tommy's face and pulls it back round to the side. "Look at me," he says and Tommy can't ... literally can't ... can't fight the way Alfie is pulling his head ... can't open his eyes ... can't stop his lips closing around the thumb that's pushed into his mouth. He bites hard on the knuckle in his mouth as Alfie bottoms out.

"Fuckin 'ell don't move," Alfie groans. He sounds wrecked, _which is something at least_, hips pressed so hard against Tommy's arse that Tommy couldn't move if he wanted to. And he doesn't want to. He feels like he's trapped in an icy crevasse—panic on one side, pleasure on the other—aware there's a decent chance of escape if he can only find his footing. He can feel the thump of Alfie's heart against his back, hard and fast but slowing, regaining some control. "You're gonna break your fuckin' teeth, mate," Alfie whispers, placing a kiss to Tommy's temple. Only then does he realise he's biting on Alfie's ring. It's an effort to stop himself doing it, to try to relax his jaw, but when he does his other muscles start to follow suit. Slowly, very slowly, the discomfort starts to melt into a dull ache and then into something else entirely. Something he might want again. They lay there for several long minutes, locked together but motionless, breaths gradually falling in sync. But when Alfie tries to move his hand from under Tommy's face, some desperate instinct makes Tommy suck at the thumb again, like he needs the bloody anchor. "You're alright, you're fine," Alfie says, leaving his thumb where it is. A tiny whimper of relief escapes from Tommy's lips, and Alfie presses another kiss to his temple. Tommy's stomach flutters. 

"Yeah?" Alfie says as he starts to move at last, carefully, hardly at all, gently rocking his hips. He's barely moving in or out but it's starting to feel good. More than good. Tommy's loathe to give his pleasure away, but it gets harder and harder to deny how his body is giving in; how his cock is straining beneath him and soft sounds are on his lips. The physical sensations are so foreign: the intensity of the fullness; the wet slick of a cock sliding in and out of him; the curling pleasure of those secret nerves being stroked and coaxed into life. Gradually the rhythm builds and the oil depletes; he finds himself clenching through the increasing friction as Alfie continues to fill him, regardless, over and over again. 

He's never been so passive in bed. Never laid on his stomach like this, in deference to a lover; never imagined the shameful bliss in the surrender of it. _Fuck_ he's so fucking close.

"Like a little suckling lamb," Alfie says into his ear, and Tommy realises he's sucking at the thumb again, desperately, pathetically. He bucks his hips at the realisation and Alfie takes advantage, quickly frees the hand that's been wrapped around Tommy's chest and finds his cock instead. _Jesus_ he thinks, he's never coming back from this; he's at his own zero degrees; the start of everything or the end of everything, depending on which way he looks. Alfie curls his fingers awkwardly, manages a few fumbling strokes but Tommy is so completely overwhelmed that that's all it takes and he spasms through an orgasm that seems to come at him from everywhere. Alfie fucks him through it, mumbling assurances in his ear, telling him how well he's done, how fucking good he feels. And then Alfie curses and thrusts with real intent abandoning his control. It's so hard and tight when he finally comes that it's Tommy who clenches and cries out again, as if it were his own release. 

Afterwards he cannot move. He lies prostrate on his stomach as Alfie groans and rolls to the side. Only when they're lying face-to-face does Alfie withdraw his thumb from Tommy's mouth. Tommy supposes he should feel more embarrassed about it, no doubt he will tomorrow, but in his immediate post-sex high it seems pointless. Alfie looks a mess: blotchy and sweaty and kind of ... shocked. 

"Fuuuck," Alfie says. And what the hell does that mean? Could be anything.

"M'fine," Tommy says, by way of reply. He's not really sure whether he's saying it to Alfie or himself, but he says it again nonetheless. "M'fine."

"Yeah, I know you are," Alfie says, placing a hand on his face.

It was only meant to be sex. And yet Tommy feels like the point from which everything else will be measured has permanently shifted. He feels elated. And relieved. And slightly shaky. 

"That was . . . I mean that fucking _mouth_," Alfie starts, rubbing his still-wet thumb over Tommy's lower lip.

"Don't," he says, face flushing again as he slowly comes back to himself.

"Must have sucked your mother dry." 

"Shut up," he groans, rolling onto his back and draping both arms across his face. _Jesus_ everything feels weird—slick and raw and hot.

"I mean it's a reflex innit? Sucking. Survival instinct."

"You're gonna need a survival instinct if you don't shut the fuck up, Alfie."

"Could come in very handy, that. Sure I could find something else to satisfy it ..."

Tommy swings his arm over blindly and elbows Alfie in the chest. "I have other reflexes, you know."

"Fuckin 'ell, watch it," Alfie moans, rubbing at his sternum. "Better keep you on your stomach then, hadn't I? Weren't so handy then." 

Despite his infuriating commentary, and much to Tommy's satisfaction, Alfie does sound a little winded. It makes Tommy feel giddy. Light. A soft snort escapes him and two dark eyes snap round to look. Alfie's brow is knitted in confusion, which isn't an expression Tommy's ever seen on him before. It makes him crack a smile. Makes Alfie shift himself onto one elbow and stare in disbelief. Or what appears to be disbelief. He's bloody hard to read at the best of times, but like this? In bed? After ... _that_? The next thing he knows, Alfie is sitting up and fumbling with the pillows. He pulls the three from under Tommy and throws two onto the floor. Then he brings one up for Tommy's head and fusses until it's in place. Tommy winces at the movement, surprised by Alfie's thoughtfulness (even if it reminds him of being in a hospital bed). He's grateful more than anything, incapable as he is of rearranging anything right now. Even his own limbs it would seem. Alfie lays back down with a satisfied grunt and stares at him some more.

"Something to eat?" he asks eventually.

"In a bit, eh?"

Wanna clean up?" 

"In a while." The truth is he doesn't want to move. At all. He doesn't want to find out how it's going to feel when he bends his knees, or stands up. Whether he can still fucking _walk_. He's fine like this for now and the towel's still under him anyway. 

Alfie gives him one last, lingering look before leaning over to turn on the radio. The sound is a welcome breath of normality. A reminder that outside the walls of this house the world continues to turn; people continue to go about their business entirely oblivious to the fact that he has just slept with Alfie Solomons. Again. It doesn't even feel very wrong. Wrong in the eyes of the Law of course, and in the eyes of the Church, but they're two institutions Tommy's never had much respect for, aren't they?

They listen to the news for a while, lying side by side. Alfie grumbles through every section from politics to sport. He reserves a special reservoir of disdain for the winter olympics it seems.

"Fuckin' pointless innit? Who gives a toss about posh gits with planks of wood strapped to their feet? Waste of fuckin' money ..."

Tommy must doze off at some point, strangely soothed by Alfie's irritation, because the next time he wakes up the shipping forecast is playing and the blankets have been pulled up over him. There's a warm glow from a single bedside lamp and Alfie is leaning against the headboard, eating a crudely cut sandwich. Tommy watches him out of the corner of his eye for a moment, before giving in to his craving. "Pass me fags," he says. A pair of raised eyebrows passes him a sandwich instead. 

He stares at it blankly until Alfie says, "It's cheese. You eat it, mate." _Contrary bastard_, Tommy thinks, before taking a bite anyway.

". . ._ Forth, Tyne, Cromarty, Dogger . . ." _ the calming voice in the background says. "_Westerly 3 or 4, increasing 5 at times. Showers then rain later. Good, occasionally poor." _

"S'the shipping forecast," Alfie says when they've listened to the strange words for several minutes.

"I know what it is," Tommy says. "But why?"

"Better than any sleeping tablets, Thomas. Like moonshine for the ears."

". . ._There are warnings of gales in all areas except Trafalgar and Fitzroy . . ."_

Alfie's right, he has to admit. There is something about the rhythm and intonation that is enchanting. Like poetry. He closes his eyes again and lets the words wash over him. He feels remarkably calm. He doesn't flinch at all when Alfie moves the plate onto the floor and shuffles under the covers. Nor when he lies right next to him. "It was good," Tommy says very quietly, when the bedside lamp's gone out.

"Hmm. It's the way I cut the crusts, mate," Alfie says. "That and good quality butter."

"Not the fucking sandwich," Tommy huffs.

"I know," Alfie says. And then he takes Tommy's hand and brings it up to his lips, kissing the pad of one thumb deliberately. "Was a darn sight better than good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shipping forecast has been broadcast 4 times per day on the BBC since 1924. It is still broadcast today (as I'm sure all British readers will know). It is uniquely soothing to listen to.
> 
> (You can listen to it on youtube if you feel so inclined, just search for the 'BBC Shipping forecast')
> 
> This chapter tormented me, so please let me know what you thought.

**Author's Note:**

> So.....some of you may be disappointed....I hope not, because Alfie is nothing if not unpredictable! And clearly there is another, "first time," So maybe that'll get written at some point. Anyway, let me know what you think. 
> 
> And come say hi or ask me anything:
> 
> www.tumblr.com/blog/mintjamsblog


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